


Bring Me in From the Cold

by LZlola



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Past Child Abuse, taking liberties with Elliot's aversion to touch and giving it a backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 10:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5160356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LZlola/pseuds/LZlola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For someone so averse to touching, he sure doesn’t mind Tyrell doing it. Or simply, Elliot evaluates how his aversion to human contact evolves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring Me in From the Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Bring Me in From the Cold (Traducción)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8628634) by [LZlola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LZlola/pseuds/LZlola), [Tyrelliot (SlashShips)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlashShips/pseuds/Tyrelliot)



> Chinese translation by the awesome kiwi_zaq [here](http://firmanent.lofter.com/post/313e8d_92b34f4).
> 
> So I guess my venture into this fandom wasn’t a one-time thing! Thank you so much for welcoming me here and the nice words/kudos for my last tyrelliot fic! Fair warning though, I ship Elliot with just about every character, so you’ll see a good dose of Angela/Elliot and Shayla/Elliot before you get to the Tyrelliot in this one. This fic - and every scene in it - revolves around touch/warmth (or lack thereof).  
> I also considered the promo picture in which Tyrell has his hands around Elliot’s neck as canon here. If you don't know what I'm talking about:  
>   
> Sorry it's so big, I don't know if/how I can resize it.
> 
> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don’t own it. This includes Tyrell’s Cadillac Escalade.

* * *

Elliot hates when people touch him.

He thinks it all started because of his mom. Because of her chilly, harsh hands and the way they would lash into his body. Unyielding, firm, insistent.

He thinks about her when people go to lay a hand on his shoulder. The gesture is always supposed to be kind, reassuring.

It’s not.

Because all he thinks about is how fake and condescending it is. All he feels is the calculated hands of a mother who never loved him, of a person who never cared.

* * *

 

It gets better when he meets Angela.

Well, not exactly. It just gets better when he’s with her.

When all the affected families of the Washington Township Scandal gather to hear that there’s no evidence linking the deaths with EvilCorp, her big, glassy eyes, brimming with sadness and heartbreak and anger, mirror his own.

And when she cries on his shoulder for the first time that night, singing like an angel the lullaby her mother used to sing to her, he doesn’t move or try to do anything.

He can’t.

Because he cries with her.

* * *

 

He tries not to let people touch him after that. Always throws on a black hoodie – an extra layer – just in case.

Maybe it’s because he starts to associate it with his mother’s cruelty, his father’s weakness, Angela’s tears…

He tells everyone that he just doesn’t like being closed in, that it’s too intimate for him.

(It just really fucking hurts.)

* * *

 

Even though Gideon realizes his mistake in touching him, he still feels it long after his hand withdraws – that coldness still lingering there.

It’s inescapable.

And in an instant, he reverts back to that little boy too afraid to stand up to someone, that little boy who could never become anything in the world.

He heads back to his computer soon after, hacking co-workers’ emails just to feel something.

Joy, satisfaction, anger, amusement, disgust, wonder…

Anything but the coldness of her hands.

It works.

* * *

 

He’s starting to think that he may love Angela.

Because he doesn’t mind when she goes in for a hug or how close she is when her knees dig into the side of his hip when they’re staring up at the sky just talking about nothing.

He thinks about her whenever he daydreams about being normal for a change, going on dates to the movies and laughing when he smears ice cream on her nose. It’s almost like a natural high, where everything is hazy and mellow and goofy smiles.

He doesn’t know what that means exactly – never knows if there’s something more to them than just friends, but it’s familiar and _nice_.

He doesn’t like much in this world, but he knows he likes the way she looks at him and the way her brilliant smile lights up the room, all warm and inviting.

This is when he starts to that think that temperature correlates with love, that warmth – heat – means affection.

 

* * *

 

And then Shayla happens.

Shayla surprises him.

She was just supposed to be his supplier, the girl next door he helped when she first moved in, an acquaintance.

That was supposed to be it.

But Shayla has a way about her that demands his attention; she just grabs a hold of him and seeps into his bones. Free-spirited and understanding and beautiful.

When he first kisses her – or she kisses him, rather – her lips are warm and he feels the heat spread throughout his body instantaneously. He _wants_ to touch her. His hand trails up her arm, by instinct almost, and suddenly, he’s not so cold anymore.

* * *

 

Yes, Shayla completely surprises him.

At least, she _did_.

Just her name makes him want ball up his fists, hug his knees tight and let the anger and sadness consume him until his mind becomes numb from all the pain now.

He was supposed to protect her. He was supposed to get her away from Vera, give her a better life, be her hero.

Instead, he led her by the hand to her grave.

He didn’t deserve her, didn’t deserve her affection.

And she didn’t deserve to die like this. Outside of a prison fence in the trunk of a car, smelling of burnt rubber and cheap cigars.

Her body is cold now. The frozen blue lips and clammy skin beneath his fingers send a shudder up his body; it haunts him. All her warmth and her light in her eyes were gone because of him.

 _From the fairy palace_ – that’s what Shayla’s name means; he looked it up.

It’s fitting, he thinks – Shayla being a fairy, something out of this world.

Helpful, fascinating, mysterious, magical.

Transient.

He takes one last look at her and he chokes back a sob against his fist as he closes the trunk and leaves her lifeless body inside.

Her corpse is going to eventually start decomposing and no one is going to look for her and no one is going to care because all she had was him.

All she had was him.

He cries again that night, except this time, he knows exactly why.

It’s never been colder.

* * *

 

He doesn’t always understand the difference between love and _love_ , or the nuances in the way someone says I love you. He thought he understood with Shayla, but maybe he was wrong.

That’s why he kissed Darlene.

She was absolutely glowing, her smile was radiant. But when his lips touch hers ( _next time, don’t ask,_ he remembers), the warmth never extends past his lips, never reaches his toes like it did with Shayla.

Hindsight is twenty-twenty, but he thinks that he just wanted to be adored, celebrated for his actions and achievements. He just wants to be told that he’s worth something in this world. Special, maybe. Somebody.

Is that selfish?

Or is that human?

* * *

 

Angela’s hands are colder than he remembers.

And it’s probably his fault, everything is always his fault nowadays. For not going to her birthday party, not telling her about Ollie, not telling her about fsociety, distancing himself after Shayla, not telling her about Mr. Robot, not letting her in…

Fuck.

This is what happens to all the good people in his life.

His choices have consequences, his zeroes – all the things he never does – have consequences. They hurt people. Maybe this is why he doesn’t let anyone in; he doesn’t want them to end up like him.

Lonely and desperate and out in the cold, always looking in.

* * *

 

Elliot misreads Tyrell entirely.

And maybe that’s why he doesn’t even bother thinking about Tyrell until now.

Because when Tyrell first touched him – a brief handshake at his desk in Allsafe – he didn’t think much of it. He knew to give in to societal norms and to greet Tyrell with a firm shake, and what he found was not unusual. Tyrell’s hand was ice-cold, just like all the other higher-ups at Evil Corp.

Even at Steel Mountain, Tyrell’s touch was cold.

And when Tyrell barged into his apartment unannounced a few minutes ago and started threatening him by putting on blue latex gloves while wearing an alarming smile, he was sure Tyrell was going to kill him with those same cold hands.

But it never happens.

Once Tyrell places his hands around his neck…it’s strange; Tyrell’s touch sends an intense jolt through his body.

It _burns_.

And the longer Tyrell’s hands stay there, with his face millimeters away from his neck, his hip pressed against his hip – the warmer the blood coursing through his veins feels. His hoodie suddenly feels too constricting and the temperature of the room surely raises a few degrees.

He’s never felt anything like it before.

Tyrell’s last words, _I need to know,_ vaguely resonates in his ears as Tyrell’s thumb lightly presses against his pulse point. He can feel Tyrell’s fingers lacing into his hair, Tyrell’s eyes searching his own, both of their walls crumbling simultaneously.

_Show me._

And before he knows it, he’s in Tyrell’s Escalade, giving directions to the arcade, leading the way.

* * *

 

It happens again when they’re at the arcade, after he explains everything to Tyrell.

That spark, that electricity.

When Tyrell touches him on the cheek without gloves or the air of a CTO wanting something – _really_ touches him, Elliot just stares at him, motionless and breathless. His face flushes from the sudden rush of heat and he can feel it all the way down to his toes, vibrating deep inside his ribcage.

And it shouldn’t happen because he hates human interaction and Tyrell manipulates people for a living. Tyrell represents everything he hates about corporate America.

But he can’t think like that – he can’t think at all – when Tyrell runs his hands down his arm, murmurs something in Swedish and stares at him with the most wondrous look he’s ever seen.

_Well, now it’s you and me._

And that’s when Tyrell leans in to kiss him.

It’s not a long kiss; it’s not one of those passionate, wet kisses he sees in the movies all the time.

It’s just a brush on his lips, a soft, little peck that sets his skin on fire and makes his heart swell in his chest.

This isn’t supposed to happen. He isn’t supposed to feel like this. Not with Tyrell Wellick.

His stomach tightens and his breathing becomes more and more erratic as Tyrell’s lips graze over his jawline, hot breath lingering on his all-too-sensitive skin.

Before he knows it, Tyrell is planting short, little pecks down his neck, over his Adam’s apple, and trailing down to the top of his chest.

They’re polite, _respectful_ almost.

He’s in such a trance that he almost misses when Tyrell starts to pull away, but the light caress of Tyrell’s hand on his cheek keeps him close, warm after the initial contact is gone. Tyrell looks at him with starry eyes before walking away. Tyrell pauses at the door and turns back to him, raising an eyebrow in question.

_Are you coming?_

* * *

 

It’s been a week since then, and he hates it when people touch him now more than ever.

Because instead of reminding him of his mother – of the cold, it now reminds him of Tyrell and how intense and hot – _tender_ – touch can be. It reminds him of how that feeling of warmth can be taken away so abruptly.

Loss. It reminds him of loss.

As a teenager, he always wondered if maybe he was destined to feel this cold forever.

Alone.

And when he can’t find Tyrell anywhere, he starts to fully believe it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and feedback is always appreciated!


End file.
